The Wished Aways
by TeamVampire
Summary: After the detective is asked to look into the case of a missing child, Sherlock's investigations lead him to an American by the name of Sarah Williams, and the situation escalates really rather alarmingly quickly from there.
1. Chapter 1

**And thus, I combine two universes that I am very probably incapable of forcing to coexist, facepalming all the while. Very sorry. I couldn't sleep until I attempted it. That said, chapter two is nearly complete (seven gaps to fill in, some larger than others), chapter three is somewhere around the halfway point (five gaps as well as a lot of description to add) and then I have 1200 words of various scenes which ought to spread out over chapters four and five. After that point (perhaps even before), it's frankly unlikely I'll continue this. I think I get intimidated by the demands of the plot, not to mention the level of description often required. What I need is a collaborator; I'm better as an editor than as a writer. I could make do with a crazy-awesome beta with plot, description and characterisation skillz. If anyone is insane enough to volunteer for that, I'd be grateful, although I don't hold much hope.**

**Now, pardon the plug, but if you haven't yet read Silver Pard's **_**Falling Down**_**, I suggest you make it a priority as it is inarguably better than this will ever be.**

**There is one last small item of business to take care of before we begin: blindly decided to set this in September 2010, which puts it among the cases at the start of A Scandal in Belgravia, I believe. It's really not terribly important, though. I've never been one to follow timelines properly.**

**Disclaimer: **_**Sherlock**_** belongs to Moffat, Gatiss et al., **_**Labyrinth**_** belongs to Henson et al., and I am left with nothing but intermittent Writer's Block and a dying laptop.**

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><p><span>The Wished-Aways<span>

Chapter 1

On an oppressively gloomy September evening – miserable, John had thought at the time – Dr John Watson could be seen leaving a Tesco Express, laden with groceries.

On the same evening, Sherlock Holmes could be seen – through the window, at least – at his desk in 221B Baker Street, tapping away intently on a filched laptop.

And so it was that John, having completed the ten minute trudge back to the flat and up the stairs, opened the door to find his flatmate apparently in the midst of a flame war with some irked forum members.

"John, good, you're back. What does 'T L semi-colon D R' mean?"

John stared. "What? I don't – Sherlock, what –?"

"It's this damn chatspeak," Sherlock said in a frustrated tone, not lifting his eyes from the screen. "It's always changing."

With a quiet sigh, John deposited his bags in the kitchen (mindful of the experiments occupying the table and countertop in their dozens) before moving to stand behind Sherlock's chair, peering at the screen in mild confusion and growing amusement.

"'The Fae Forum'? Seriously, Sherlock?"

Much to John's surprise, Sherlock actually looked almost sheepish. "Well, it's not as though there are any reliable sources of information on the subject."

"Mmhmm," hummed John as he returned to the kitchen to put away the groceries.

"And there's something odd going on."

"No arguments there," John muttered under his breath, shifting a jar of eyeballs to the fridge's bottom shelf to make room for the eggs.

"We had a client while you were at the clinic."

That warranted pause, dripping bag of pierced tongues be damned.

"Oh? What, asking you to investigate fairies?"

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "In a manner of speaking."

The doctor snorted. "And you actually took the case?"

Having abandoned the seat at the desk for his favourite armchair, Sherlock steepled his fingers and gazed steadily at his flatmate.

John, having the experience and good sense to recognise an impending lecture, forsook the tongues and put away the last of the perishables before closing the fridge door and sitting down opposite the detective.

"Miss Lucy Taylor. Half-Irish, smoker, no pets, recently unemployed, single mother of one. Or was, at any rate."

"Was?"

"Miss Taylor asked me to investigate the disappearance of her 14-month-old baby. She told me that, late last night, unable to stop his crying, she shouted at him, left the room and returned moments later to find the cot empty. She claimed, John, to have wished him away."

"Hold on." John held up a hand, as if trying to create a barrier to block Sherlock's next words. "'Wished him away'?"

Sherlock ignored him. "Initially, I refused the case, but she insisted that she isn't the only one, that there are others who wished away their children or siblings to the fae."

"Which leads us to you and that forum."

"Precisely. I read many other accounts, most of them second- or third-hand stories without much detail, but I was referred a number of times to one Sarah Williams, an American who purportedly wrote the book on 'wished-aways'."

"Uh huh. And what did she say?"

"Nothing yet. She hasn't replied to my email."

"So you're taking this seriously, then?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised.

"Well…" John floundered for a moment. "Maybe Lucy Taylor lied. Maybe she… was angry, went too far and thought she could clear herself of suspicion by asking you to investigate. Could just be another case of SBS." He felt sickened by the idea even as he voiced it.

"Then why not just go to the police? This case might never have been brought to my attention. She's read your blog, seen my work – she knows I stand a better chance of finding what happened than the Yard. No, there's more at work here."

There was a short silence during which Sherlock straightened his dressing gown and John considered this information.

"I s'pose…" he said finally. "So are you going to be needing my help or are you just waiting for that email?"

"Email."

"Right, well, good luck with that." John got to his feet, stretching. "I'm going to bed. Wake me if something happens and try not to contaminate the milk before the morning."

With that, John shuffled upstairs, prepared for bed and promptly collapsed onto the mattress, where, despite his thoroughly exhausted state (their previous case had only been closed well after one a.m. the night before), he lay awake for hours, thoughts of fairies and missing children buzzing around his mind until he eventually managed to drift off into a reasonably peaceful sleep.

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><p>John was woken what felt like mere seconds later by an irritatingly lively Sherlock looming over his bed.<p>

"John, I've secured a meeting with Miss Williams. I'll need you to book the flight."

To his credit, John made a heroic effort to comprehend his flatmate's request through the customary post-sleep haze. "Wait, I thought you said she was in America. We can't go to America, Sherlock."

To _his_ credit, Sherlock refrained from calling John an idiot. "Not for us – for her. Apart from the fact that our case is here, Miss Williams has assured me that we won't require to see anything from her home, but that it is imperative that she speak with me in person. I told her I'd arrange her travel."

"Thoughtful," mumbled John into his pillow, one bleary eye noting that his bedside clock read 3.46 a.m..

"Make it the next available flight out of New York," Sherlock instructed briskly on his way to the door. "And put on some tea, would you?"

John groaned and would have fallen right back to sleep, were it not for the sudden caterwauling of a violin floating up through the floor, intended specifically, John suspected, to force him out of bed.

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><p>It was much later that day, during the cab ride to Heathrow, that John voiced a growing concern.<p>

"Sherlock… You don't…" John took a deep breath and damn near cracked his teeth on the bullet. "You don't actually think any of this stuff about wishes is true, right?"

The look Sherlock gave him was exactly why John had been so reluctant to say anything.

"Obviously not."

In the privacy of his own mind (or in as much privacy as one's mind could offer while in the presence of Sherlock Holmes), John gave a sigh of relief. He'd been beginning to worry for his friend's sanity, given the amount of time, money and effort the detective was already expending on this case.

"As it stands, though, we have what appears to be an extremely well-timed kidnapping to investigate, possibly a string of them. This Sarah Williams, delusional or not, may have important information. Ignoring this lead could compromise the entire case."

John nodded and sat back to endure the rest of the journey through London's busy streets in appeased silence. Wished-away children were well and truly out of his comfort zone; kidnapped children, on the other hand, he could handle.

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><p>Sarah Williams was a woman with what John deemed to be movie-quality good looks: thick, dark hair cut in a neat bob, a defined jaw, focused eyes and a delicate nose, if slightly heavy eyebrows. He guessed her to be in her mid-thirties.<p>

"Sarah Williams, I take it?" said Sherlock, stepping forward to meet her after they had weaved their way through the crowded terminal.

"Sherlock Holmes," she said confidently, shaking his hand before turning to John. "And you must be Dr John Watson."

"Er, yes, I am," replied John, distractedly offering her his hand. "How…?"

"I've done my research, Dr Watson. Your blog makes for fascinating reading."

"John, please. And thank you very much." John ignored the quietly scornful noise Sherlock made; his flatmate had said plenty about John's blog recently to make his opinion on the subject clear.

Sarah stifled a yawn with her hand. "Sorry. I slept a little on the plane, but… time zones, you know?"

"Of course. We thought you might want to stop by a café for lunch, uh… breakfast? And maybe discuss things there."

The confident, relaxed woman underwent an abrupt change in demeanour. "No," she said tightly. "I'd prefer somewhere private."

"Oh. Right, of course," said John, somewhat taken aback. He looked to Sherlock only to find the detective's focus fixed solely on Sarah. "We'll go straight to the flat, then, if that's fine by you."

Nodding, Sarah motioned for them to take the lead exiting the terminal, knuckles white on the handle of her travel bag.

Sherlock maintained his uncharacteristic silence throughout the cab ride back to Baker Street, staring out the passenger window, apparently ignoring both John's efforts to make conversation and Sarah's sometimes inexplicably tense responses.

After they arrived at their destination, Sarah did a rather curious thing. Sherlock, having swept through the doorway as soon as it opened, turned to watch as Sarah paused on the doorstep, John holding the door for her. Bending down, the woman took hold of the welcome mat.

"You don't mind, do you?" she asked John, standing upright once again with the mat clutched in one hand.

John, although having no idea what she meant, shook his head.

Sarah smiled stiffly and crossed the threshold, placing the mat just inside the door before following Sherlock as he resumed his journey up the stairs. Locking the door behind him, John mimicked them with no small amount of confusion.

By the time John reached 221B, Sherlock had put the kettle on and was taking a seat, gesturing for Sarah to do the same. As she complied, curious eyes scanning every inch of the cluttered room, John retrieved his notebook from underneath the skull before heading for the kitchen to find some clean teacups.

Sarah found herself more or less alone with the consulting detective, who obviously didn't intend to break the silence any time soon.

"About the welcome mat," she said. "It must have seemed strange –"

"Superstition, I take it?"

Sarah nodded. "It's just… they can be very tricky. It's best not to leave any possible loopholes."

"And by 'they' you mean the fae."

Sarah bristled at his tone.

"I was under the impression, Mr Holmes, that you wanted my help in some matter pertaining to the fae," she said sharply.

"Yes!" said John loudly before Sherlock could make his undoubtedly scathing retort, setting two mugs on the table in front of the fireplace and passing Sarah a third. The doctor made one more trip to the kitchen while Sarah eyed her tea almost suspiciously, returning with sugar and milk.

"So," John began, sitting down in his usual chair and avoiding eye contact with either of his suddenly rather hostile companions. "A woman came in yesterday – a client. She told Sherlock –"

"We've been asked to look into the mysterious disappearance of an infant," interrupted Sherlock curtly. "I'm told you have some experience in that area."

Sarah blanched but met his gaze.

"So that's what you meant when you said it was urgent," she murmured, grasping her mug with both hands. "The poor mother…"

"Well?"

"Well what? You know what happened. She must have told you if you've come to me."

Sherlock huffed, clearly unimpressed. "The mother says she _wished her baby away_," he said, his tone mocking. "Wished him away, left the room for mere seconds and returned to an empty cot."

After a few moments of apparently waiting for him to continue, Sarah let out a surprised, "That's it?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That can't… I mean, she didn't say anything else?" Her voice carried a hint of desperation.

"So you know what happened, then?" asked John.

"I do. But I don't think you're going to like it, or believe it," Sarah replied with a glance in Sherlock's direction. "Sometimes I'd rather not."

With some shifting of the fingers she kept wrapped firmly around her mug, Sarah inhaled deeply, dropping her eyes. Reluctant, John noted. Stalling – trying to avoid bad memories, perhaps. He often had the same reaction when asked about Afghanistan, though that was a mercifully rare occurrence.

"When I was fifteen, I wished for goblins to come take my baby brother away."

She either did not see or chose to ignore the sceptical glance the other two exchanged.

"I managed to bring him back, but…" Sarah looked up from her tea, meeting Sherlock's gaze with an expression hovering somewhere between determination and regret. "Mr Holmes, I advise that you forget about this case. If the mother is telling the truth, there's nothing to be done for her child now."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes while John gaped.

"Nothing to be done? You just said you got your brother back!"

"There was a… difference in circumstances."

"You mean how she wished her baby away to the fae and you wished your brother to the goblins?" asked John as he scanned his notes, treating the matter seriously despite himself.

Looking more disheartened with each passing minute, Sarah shook her head morosely.

"When the mother says fae, she means goblins. You see, the goblins are just the… servants, I suppose you'd say. Their ruler is fae, though – the Goblin King. Technically, it is the fae who get the child, but it's the goblins you have to ask to… to take them."

"So what is it, then?" Sherlock inquired impatiently. "What makes it so impossible to save this child, as you did your brother?"

"That's just it, though. It's not just this child. I've spoken to dozens of people with the same story, but I've never met anyone else who got their child back!" Her voice cracked just slightly. "Not one. That's why I'm considered such an authority – by them, anyway.

"But that's not all!" Sarah continued vehemently when John opened his mouth to speak. "It's too late to save the baby, but if you've told me everything and she told you everything… she didn't even get the chance."

John leaned forward in his chair, fingers stilling in their task of note-taking. "What do you mean?"

Sarah bit her lip. "I'd rather not say until I've spoken with your client."

"Why?" Sherlock prodded, his tone disinterested. He had abandoned his armchair in favour of pacing; clearly, he felt this case was becoming dull. "So you can mould your story to fit her account?"

"No, because I'm hoping that I'm wrong and there _is_ more to her story than what she told you!" Sarah snapped, shooting an irritated glare in the detective's direction.

"Naturally."

"Why would I lie?"

"Well… maybe it's not a lie," suggested John, playing the diplomat. "Maybe you believe what you're say–"

"You think I imagined it? 'Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, such shaping fantasies, that apprehend more than cool reason ever comprehends', right?" Sarah paused for a moment, apparently to calm herself, for when she continued both her expression and her voice were composed. "I'm not delusional, John, not due to love or anything else."

"Then you're lying," said Sherlock curtly.

Sarah thinned her lips angrily before leaning over and unzipping her travel bag. She reached inside and after some rummaging brought out a small, red book bound in worn leather and entitled _The Labyrinth_, which she tossed to Sherlock rather unceremoniously.

"I found this book in my mother's old things a week before I wished my brother away," she said, tone implying a sense of vindication, while Sherlock set aside his tea and began to flick through the book's yellowed pages. "It's about a girl whose stepmother treats her like a slave – there're a lot of Cinderella elements in it, actually. You see, my father had remarried a couple years before and I was, well, very resentful of my stepmother. I felt like this book, inanimate as it may have been, understood me, like it was made for me."

Sarah paused in her narrative to grimace. "To this day, I don't know whether it actually was or if it was just bad luck that made it fall into my hands." She shook her head. "Anyway, the girl in the book wishes away her baby brother, but realises her mistake and travels to the kingdom of the goblins to rescue him. It's a pretty generic story structure: gaining friends along the way, overcoming obstacles, then the big finale where she defeats the Goblin King and returns home with her brother."

"And you want us to believe that this happened to you?"

"Yes, I do. And not just me, but others, too, or at least part of it happened to them. It's like I said before – I've never met anyone else who got their child back." Sarah nodded to the open book in Sherlock's hands. "That book has no ISBN; it doesn't even exist according to any of the databases I've searched. All these other people, though, they say they remember having a copy and that it was what prompted them to wish away their kids. None of them kept their copy, though. Some threw it out or burned it, the rest think they must have lost it."

Sherlock closed the book and reclaimed his tea, looking thoroughly unmoved. "I fail to see your point."

"My _point_, Mr Holmes, is that there's a connection between all of these disappeared children, whether you believe in the fae or not, and that what I've told you goes much further than my own story. So in future I suggest you refrain from making assumptions about someone you really don't know."

Never one to back down from a challenge, Sherlock was off and deducing before John could so much as roll his eyes.

"You're an English teacher at a high school. You own a large dog and live with your boyfriend, whom you've been seeing for nearly a year, and you prefer coffee to tea."

Sarah wet her lips. "How…?"

"Your lanyard, visible when you opened your bag, holds a card identifying you as a staff member at John Bowne High School. You referenced Shakespeare earlier and discussed the contents of this book –" He brandished _The Labyrinth_ demonstratively. "– unusually analytically. English teacher, then, possibly humanities. Simple. There are traces of fur on your jeans, not to mention the faint paw print near the hem of your blouse, so you've got a dog, a large one, but you were able to leave the country with little more than an hour's notice. Either you've a very good friend who's willing to look after it in the middle of the night or you have a roommate, although more likely a boyfriend, judging by the necklace – together less than a year, but in a long-term arrangement, going by the wear and quality."

Sarah automatically reached for said necklace, closing her fingers around the inscribed pendant.

"As for the preference for coffee, you've been quite blatantly emotional and yet you haven't so much as sipped your tea."

There was a stretched moment of silence, the sort that often follows an embarrassing faux pas committed by that strange cousin nobody speaks to, or a declaration of love which is not reciprocated by the other party.

"Um… that was…"

"Painfully obvious, to anyone who bothers to look."

Although Sherlock was, by all appearances, intensely bored, John rather suspected he was a good deal happier, having managed some showing off.

"I was going to say 'incredible'. I mean, it's one thing reading about it on the blog, but hearing it first-hand…"

Now John was certain Sherlock was pleased.

"Anything wrong?"

"Well…" began Sarah in a considering sort of tone, "I teach English Literature. Atticus is an Old English Sheepdog – he was a birthday present from my boyfriend, Sean. We've been seeing each other for… almost eleven months now, living together for the past three. And you're right about the coffee, but that's not why I didn't drink the tea."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, intrigued. "Why, then?"

"I don't like to accept food from strangers."

"You expect to be poisoned?"

Sarah glanced out the window, eyes vague and a wry twist to her lips. "Something like that."

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><p><strong>Forgive me if it seems as stilted and dialogue-heavy to you as it does to me; I'm a little rusty. That I'll need you to humour me where any cultural discrepancies are concerned, I think, goes without saying.<strong>

**As for the longevity and prevalence of "tl;dr", please suspend your disbelief, for my sake. Also, I have taken some liberties with fae mythology in areas which were not really addressed in **_**Labyrinth**_**, at least to my knowledge. Rest assured I have done my research, however feel free to question as much as you see fit and I'll explain my reasoning, or perhaps I have done something rather stupid and you, the clever reader, will be astute enough to notice. If you do plan on leaving a review, may I suggest the "something I did like, something I didn't like" format?**

**And, of course, for those unfamiliar with my previous stories, be prepared to have patience forced upon you. I do not update quickly by any means.**

**-TeamVampire**


	2. Chapter 2

**If I were a cleverer person, I'd act like I know what I'm doing all the time; no one would ever question me. Instead, allow me to simply plead for mercy and understanding as I flounder through this story (the strange mid-scene focus shifts between Sarah and John and even Lestrade, man… I am so sorry; they just happened and I can't seem to fix them). On that note, do me a massive favour and try to let it slide whenever Sarah acts like a teenager. I've never been a 39-year-old woman, but I've certainly had a lot of practice at being a teenage girl.**

**Fun fact: I hate the word "splutter", but I've used it here, for you guys. Saliva and breath are serious squicks for me, so the connotations of the word… Well, I don't find it pleasant. (I believe **_**Twilight**_** at one point reads, "I smelled his cool breath in my face", after which Bella purposely inhales. I feel nauseous just thinking about it. As if the series wasn't already squicky enough.) And yet here I am, trying my darnedest to improve your reading experience by using accurate verbs. Let it never be said that I was not a generous author, frequency of updates aside.**

**tl;dr: I'M SORRY FOR THE BITS I HATE, BUT I JUST REALISED THERE ARE 21 PEOPLE SUBSCRIBED TO THIS AND THAT MADE ME FEEL HAPPY AND GUILTY SO I HAD TO POST THIS TONIGHT/THIS MORNING.**

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><p><span>The Wished-Aways<span>

Chapter 2

As it soon became clear that Sarah was not going to elaborate on the matter of her careful diet, regardless of any attempts at coercion, Sherlock wasted no time in hustling both her and John out of the flat, declaring that they were going to examine the scene of the crime. Their journey passed without incident, although as the cab pulled up in front of a nondescript block of flats something occurred to John.

"Hang on," he said when Sherlock made to follow Sarah out onto the pavement. "You said Sarah quoted Shakespeare before. How did that manage a place on your hard drive when the Earth going 'round the Sun got deleted?"

Sherlock gave him an impatient look and, in a tone to match his expression, replied, "It's _Shakespeare_, John," before ducking out of the cab.

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><p>Once inside the small, relatively unkempt flat, Sherlock had immediately headed for the nursery, dragging John along with him and leaving Sarah to console the grieving mother, a task which, for want of a more explicit phrase, was not going well.<p>

Lucy Taylor, a plain, rather frazzled-looking woman in her early-thirties, let out a choked sob. "I don't know why I even asked Mr Holmes to help. I _know_ what happened. My little Andrew is gone and… and it's all my fault!" The distraught woman sniffled pathetically, perched on the edge of a worn couch.

Sarah said nothing, shifting awkwardly in her chair and avoiding Lucy's eyes.

"I just keep thinking that maybe… maybe there's something…" Lucy sighed, the sound rough and scratchy. "I don't know. I just can't bear to give up, not when, if it weren't for me, he'd… he'd still be here." Voicing this thought seemed to trigger a fresh round of tears which were clumsily wiped away with a handful of scrunched-up tissues.

Feeling the distinctly uncomfortable pangs of past guilt as it dusted itself off and prodded at her conscience, Sarah sought to change the subject, if only slightly.

"So the police were here." She motioned to the lines of yellow tape crossing the doorway to the nursery, just visible down the short hallway.

Lucy nodded somewhat jerkily. After a hard swallow, she said, "They say they're going to find him, but…" Her lips tightened over a badly stifled whimper. "They can't, can they? Not where he's gone."

Watching as Lucy buried her face in her hands, Sarah bit her lip, wondering how best to word her response. "Away with the fae, you mean."

Lucy jolted, dropping her hands. "Where did you h– Oh." She glanced briefly down the hallway. "Right."

Sarah said nothing.

"Mr Holmes doesn't believe me, of course," the mother informed her, expression somewhere between heartbroken and haughty as she brushed aside an errant lock of ash-blonde hair. "No one does, and why should they? But he's still trying, just to humour me." She managed a weak, watery smile. "He's been such a sweetheart."

Privately thinking that, from what she'd seen of him thus far, Sherlock had never "just humoured" someone in his life, Sarah nodded. Now for the tricky part.

"Lucy," she said, willing herself not to fidget, "I believe you."

Lucy stared, which was a welcome alternative to the crying, and Sarah rushed on. "I've sort of made a study of cases like yours, people like you. I… well, I guess you could say I'm sort of an expert."

Lucy continued gazing blankly at her, until finally –

"So you're a doctor, then. You think I'm crazy."

Blinking in confusion for a moment, Sarah hastened to backtrack before Lucy could shut her out. "No, no! Not anything like one! I'm a high school teacher," she assured her earnestly. "I've never even seen an episode of _In Treatment_, I swear."

Eyes still suspicious, Lucy eventually motioned for her to go on.

"I believe what you say about wishing him away," said Sarah, injecting her tone with as much sincerity as she could muster. "I… know a few things about it and about how it works. And I have to ask…" _Here we go_, she thought with some dread. "Did you… see anyone? Or anything?"

Lucy looked bemused. "I don't understand."

"After you wished the baby away," Sarah clarified hastily. "Andrew," she added, mentally kicking herself for her tactical clumsiness. "Was there anyone there after you wished Andrew away?"

"No one," said Lucy, looking to the floor as she dabbed at her moistening eyes. "I walked back in and he… the cot was just empty."

Sarah deflated, her hopes – insignificant though they may have been – dashed. "I'm sorry." It seemed the appropriate thing to say. She cast her gaze about for some way to politely exit the conversation, or at least switch the topic, and her eyes fell upon the nursery doorway. "I better go see how they're doing."

As she was about to stand up, though, Sarah made a decision on a whim. She leant forward, clasping Lucy's hand in her own and looking the woman in the eye, filled with an oddly fervent need to ease her burden.

"Listen… what you did, it wasn't right, but you weren't to know what would happen and you certainly aren't the only one. I did it, too, when I was younger. I wished away my baby brother."

Lucy gasped, her own grief pushed temporarily to one side. "Oh, my God. I am so sorry." She squeezed Sarah's fingers in sympathy.

Sarah made a small, dismissive motion with her free hand, waving away Lucy's concern. "I got him back in the end, but I just wanted you to know I understand how these things happen. You're not as guilty as you believe."

Too late, Sarah realised she'd made a terrible mistake.

"So… my Andrew," said Lucy slowly, hope beginning to edge its way into her expression. "I can get him back?"

Her gaze falling almost as quickly as Lucy's heart was surely about to, Sarah slipped her hand free and reluctantly shook her head. "I'm sorry," she muttered as gently as she was able. Her chest felt unusually tight.

Despite an indignant voice in her head demanding that she stay and comfort the poor woman, Sarah stood without another word or glance in Lucy's direction and headed for the nursery, feeling more horribly guilty than any time she could remember since that wretched night all those years ago. From behind her drifted the sound of Lucy resuming her broken sobbing.

The nursery was better furnished and more brightly decorated than the rest of the flat, the walls a pale blue. A cot which looked second-hand but seemed in good condition stood in one corner, with a changing table in another and a chest of drawers under the closed window. Stepping through the doorway, Sarah's gaze immediately fell upon Sherlock and John, who were squatting in the centre of the floor. Sherlock had pulled on a pair of medical gloves from God only knows where and was carefully brushing something from the carpet into a glass vial.

"Try not to inhale it," advised John, noticing Sarah, "or get any in your eyes."

Sarah nodded and crouched down beside them, still a safe distance from the small cloud that was being produced by Sherlock's activities. Squinting slightly, she watched as the cloud seemed to shimmer, microscopic particles dancing in the muted light filtering in through the window, like magic made tangible…

"The glitter," Sarah murmured almost reverently, catching both her companions' attention.

"Glitter?" repeated John.

She inclined her head slowly, eyes focused on the gradually settling particles. "That night, there was glitter in the air. It came with him. And the labyrinth… it was coated in the stuff."

Sherlock and John shared a meaningful look as Sarah seemed to break from her reverie.

"By-product of the magic, maybe," she suggested in an airy tone, daring them to scorn her.

"Maybe," Sherlock said lowly in what Sarah would later term his "thinking about things too complex for you to comprehend" voice. Stoppering the vial and divesting himself of the gloves, Sherlock straightened up and pulled out his phone.

With some effort, John joined him in standing. "What are you doing?"

"Texting Lestrade," said Sherlock, ceasing his typing with a glance at Sarah, who was still on the floor, captivated by what lay amongst the fibres of the carpet. "We need more data."

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><p>Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was in the middle of normal day at New Scotland Yard. His coffee was fresh and not nearly as bad as usual, there was a large supply of doughnuts in the kitchen and the stack of paperwork in his inbox was increasing at a rate of approximately three hours' worth every hour. It was all completely standard – barring the quality of the coffee – and looking to continue that way for the remainder of the day. So, naturally, his phone just had to alert him to an approaching disruption.<p>

_Need a favour._

_SH_

Lestrade sighed. Of course it was Sherlock. Resisting the urge to reply with some choice and not particularly polite words or, better yet, just not reply at all, he quickly thumbed out a message.

_Little busy. What is it?_

Sherlock gave the DI just enough time to resume his attempts to complete the report he'd been working on before texting back:

_Pull cold cases of missing children, all of them. Will be at Yard in half hour._

Lestrade briefly toyed with the idea of refusing, but, taking into account that this was Sherlock Holmes he was dealing with and therefore the probability of the man taking "no" for an answer was somewhere in the vicinity of zero, ultimately decided against it. Reluctantly, he stood and headed for the records room, wondering if enlisting Donovan's help would ease his suffering or just make it worse.

* * *

><p>Lestrade met them just outside his office.<p>

"Think we got them all," he said wearily as they approached. "Now what is this – hold on!" He blocked Sherlock's entry to the office by throwing an arm across the doorway. "What's this for?"

"A case."

"Not the Taylor baby case?"

When Sherlock didn't respond, the two engaged in an impromptu staring contest which was quickly ended by Lestrade, who had better things to do than stand around waiting for Sherlock Holmes to volunteer information.

"All right, fine. But _first_," he added hastily when Sherlock made to push past him, "since you're here, I could use your advice."

He took Sherlock's silence for acquiescence – a common practice, given that silence was often the best one could expect from the detective when he was feeling uncooperative. It was certainly a step up from insults.

"Woman in her forties, married for twelve years, found dead on her kitchen floor this morning by a neighbour. Time of death estimated to be two a.m.. Stabbed."

"The husband, obviously. Now…"

"Yeah, hold _on_." Sometimes Lestrade truly hated asking for Sherlock's help. "The husband's been pulled in for questioning, but he says he was asleep and didn't hear a thing until his neighbour's scream woke him at nine-thirty. Complete rubbish, but we can't find the murder weapon. CCTV shows no one entering or leaving the building, so it's gotta be in there still, but the kitchen knives are all clean, as well as his craft ones."

"What does he do?"

"Unemployed at the moment. The wife worked."

"You said he had craft knives. Hobbies?"

"Real arts an' crafts kind of guy. Painting, pottery, candles, you name it."

Sherlock didn't even pause to order his thoughts. "Check inside the candles – any wet pottery as well, though he likely would have thought it too obvious." He shot Lestrade a contemptuous look. "Really, Lestrade, a little transparent, isn't it? Even for you."

With that, Sherlock ducked under Lestrade's arm and made a beeline for the tower of files sitting on the desk. The DI _really_, truly hated asking for Sherlock's help.

"Right, thanks," muttered Lestrade, turning back to John and Sarah, who had been watching the exchange with fatigue and fascination, respectively.

"Uh, this is Sarah Williams," John said before the silence could grow awkward. "Sarah, Detective Inspector Lestrade."

Lestrade managed a diplomatic smile in spite of his ruined mood. "Ms Williams. It's a pleasure."

Sarah returned the smile warmly. "Just Sarah, please."

"Of course." Lestrade shook her extended hand and, after an uncomfortable pause, said, "So are you and John, uh –"

"No," said John, cutting him off. "We're not –"

"Oh, no," said Sarah. "I'm just –"

"Sarah's just –"

"A colleague," Sherlock intoned without looking up.

Three heads swivelled briefly in Sherlock's direction.

"Another one," commented Donovan as she wandered by their little doorway social, eyes on an open file.

Lestrade turned back to Sarah, clearly unfazed by his colleague's snark. His voice held traces of humour when he asked, "You a doctor, too?"

Sarah laughed. "Not with my fear of needles, no. I'm a high school teacher, actually."

That earned a raised eyebrow. "Just moved here, or…?"

"Visiting for the weekend, though I wish I could stay and do some sightseeing." She gave a small, rueful smile. "England is beautiful. I've wanted to visit for as long as I can remember, but it never seemed like a good time." A chuckle escaped her. "Turns out all I needed was a little help in the motivation department."

Lestrade hummed, unconsciously slipping into detective mode. "And how did Sherlock provide that help?"

Suddenly very aware of herself, Sarah lost the growing sense of camaraderie and replied in a careful, clipped tone. "He asked for my input. It wasn't anything in particular."

"You had to travel across the Atlantic to give him your input?"

Sarah bit her lip, knowing as she did it that she was giving herself away. In her mind she cursed her terrible poker face. She wasn't even doing anything illegal, at least as far as she knew. Why did cops have the ability to make her so nervous?

"It's, ah, involved," supplied John. "Sherlock insisted. You know how he gets."

Terrible poker face, perhaps, but Sarah still had the presence of mind not to send John a grateful glance for his smooth cover-up. That would have been slightly more telling than a bitten lip.

Fortunately, Sherlock chose that moment to rejoin them, having apparently finished with the missing children's files.

"We're done here."

"Right. And exactly what were we doing here in the first place?" asked John.

"I told you – gathering data. And we're not finished yet." With a nod to a suspicious, irritated Lestrade, Sherlock turned on his heel and made for the exit, leaving John and Sarah to make their abrupt goodbyes to the DI and hurry after him.

* * *

><p>The laboratory at St Bart's was of great interest to Sarah, much like everything she'd seen so far in the UK. She considered the notion that she might just be in the tourist mindset – after all, John Bowne High had labs, and she even took homeroom in one of them – but felt that her admiration was well-deserved in this case. She doubted she could even put a name to half the equipment in the room.<p>

Upon entering, Sherlock quickly became preoccupied with a rather fiddly-looking endeavour involving various chemicals and strips of coloured paper, leaving John and Sarah to amuse themselves by looking about the lab. John's patience lasted all of fifty-two seconds before he broke the silence.

"Sarah, you said earlier… you had a theory that you wanted to check with Miss Taylor?"

Sarah looked to Sherlock, who, despite being engrossed in the microscope's eyepiece, had his ears perked, figuratively speaking.

"Well…" She wrung her hands. "See, when, uh… Okay, it's like this." They were going to think she was crazy, or crazier, anyway. "When I wished my brother away, someone – the Goblin King, I mean – he, um –" Sarah took a deep breath and, eyes fixed firmly on a nearby burette, forced the rest of the sentence out. "He flew in through my window and offered me a crystal."

John blinked, glancing at Sherlock, who hadn't even lifted his head, and back to Sarah. "He… flew in through your window?" said John. He looked as though he was hoping she was just attempting to make an extremely poor joke.

"And offered me a crystal in exchange for letting him take my brother without a fight, yes," Sarah confirmed, nodding. "He said it contained my dreams."

"Uh, okay." John pulled himself together with seemingly little effort. Sarah couldn't help but admire his stubborn refusal to be fazed. "Go on. What was your theory?"

"Well, that's just it, see. Lucy should have seen him. It's part of the lore. The Goblin King shows up and gives you two options: take the gift or run the labyrinth."

"Wait, hold on. 'Run the labyrinth'?"

"That's how you get the child back. There's this enormous labyrinth that surrounds the Goblin City, with the castle right in the centre, and you have to make it to the castle in thirteen hours or… you lose, basically. The book I showed you earlier, it's called _The Labyrinth_."

"Right." John gnawed on his lip. "So you ran it."

"Yes."

"And won."

"That's right."

"Okay, so… people who wish away their kids are supposed to run the labyrinth to get them back."

Sarah grimaced. "They're supposed to be given the chance. Most of the people I've talked to about it tried, but… Sometimes people do stupid things, you know? Young mothers, kids who didn't understand… It seems like an obvious choice to you and me, but when you're there, being given this huge decision to make, and it's already so confusing, you just sort of – I thought about taking the crystal," she admitted. "It was so beautiful and you wouldn't believe how much I wanted to live out my dreams back then. They seemed like all I had. Toby was – he was my half-brother, and I think I thought that didn't really make him my brother, or my responsibility. I don't know. I didn't realise I loved him so much until I chose him over my dreams, I guess."

John respectfully gave her a moment before asking, "But the Goblin King didn't offer that to Lucy?"

Sarah shook her head. "I don't understand it. He has to. It's not something they're given a choice about. The fae are bound to certain rules."

"Apparently not."

Sarah and John turned to look at Sherlock, who had finally abandoned the microscope.

"They are," said Sarah firmly. "There must be something about Lucy, or maybe it's something that's going on in the goblin kingdom that's suddenly created a loophole."

"If that is the case, it certainly isn't sudden," Sherlock said evenly.

Sarah froze, right down to her breathing. "What do you mean?" she asked after a few seconds, once her heart had remembered itself.

"Those missing children's reports at the Yard – none of them mentioned anything about the involvement of another party. The children just vanished."

Overwhelmed by a wave of dizziness, Sarah fumbled for the nearest stool and all but collapsed onto it, dropping her head into her hands. "For how long?"

Sherlock surveyed her for a few seconds before answering. "There was a case with circumstances similar to this from twenty years ago."

Sarah let out a long, shuddering breath. Twenty years – not long after she'd wished Toby away. She looked up. "What if this is my fault?"

"What? Sarah, no," John protested.

"What if when I beat the labyrinth, I – I don't know – broke whatever magic forces J– the Goblin King to let people run it? And that's why this happened to Lucy, and to all those other people! Because of me!" Sarah blinked back tears as the room blurred and her breathing grew louder, speckled with rough sounds that were well on their way to becoming sobs.

"It's possible."

"Sherlock!"

Sarah swallowed, her voice hoarse and low as she said, "I had no idea… Everyone I've spoken to on the forums wished their kids away before I did. There's been no one more recent than me. It's so –" She paused, working to regulate her breathing while mulling over this influx of new information. "I guess it makes sense, though. How would they know about the labyrinth unless they tried running it? How would they even know anyone else had done it, too? Wishing kids away, I mean... it's all just a story, until you live it."

Neither Sherlock nor John seemed to have a response to that, as, after a hollow silence in which Sarah tried valiantly to compose herself, the doctor redirected the conversation.

"What do you mean by similar circumstances?" John asked Sherlock. "In the unsolved cases."

"A number of them bore much the same markers as Miss Taylor's case, however a few stood out. Forensics noted the presence of aluminium flakes."

Sarah's attention was caught. "Aluminium flakes?"

Sherlock gestured to his little workspace.

"It's _aluminium_?" asked John disbelievingly.

"Presumably left there by the kidnapper. The spread was far too wide and fine to have been left by shoes, so it must be a product of something they _do_ while there."

"So something that leaves these flakes… that you'd do while kidnapping a kid?" John huffed, spreading his arms and shrugging, clearly nonplussed. "How the hell are we supposed to work that one out?"

"The more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be," said Sherlock cryptically as he began gathering his belongings. "A narrower scope is always preferable." He glanced at his watch. "Back to the flat – I have something I need to test out."

* * *

><p>"I'm not going to! No way!"<p>

Sherlock was, as ever, completely undeterred by adamant refusal. He stared calmly at Sarah from his relaxed position in the armchair by the fireplace. "My investigation cannot proceed without this experiment, and you obviously want closure, even if you won't admit it. This is the logical step to take and the only remaining option we have."

"No, I have another option: getting a flight back home! And lemme tell you, that option is looking a hell of a lot better right now," said Sarah, resisting the urge to bring her fist down on the nearby desk in an emphatic but sadly inappropriately dramatic gesture.

"Very well. Then I'll do it without you."

Sarah's eyes widened. "You can't."

"I have done far worse in the course of an investigation than saying a few words from a children's storybook. Your involvement, however, would ensure the safe return of the test subject, assuming the fae exist, as you believe. If you refused to participate and the subject was taken irretrievably, it would weigh on your conscience."

"_You_ would be the one –"

"– who did the wishing, yes, but it's your help that would make the difference. You will take part, because you couldn't stand not to."

The argument came to a temporary halt as Sarah considered this, glaring at Sherlock all the while, although some of the effect was lost as she chewed her lip in thought.

"Even if I did, it wouldn't guarantee anything. Lucy never had the opportunity to rescue her baby, and she's almost definitely not the first. The same could happen here."

"If the subject is taken, I highly doubt your Goblin King would pass up an opportunity to gloat. You beat his labyrinth, after all," said Sherlock in a tone somewhere between challenging and sarcastic.

Sarah shoved her fingers back through her hair with a huff of frustration. "But you don't even believe any of this! So why are you so determined for me to be here?"

"Well, I can hardly think of a better way to prove you irrefutably wrong."

"That's great, Sherlock," John said wearily as Sarah opened her mouth to reply. "Very clever. But exactly who is this test subject gonna be?"

Sherlock and Sarah exchanged a meaningful glance.

"Great," said John. "That's just great."

* * *

><p>Sherlock sighed with exaggerated impatience, tapping his fingers on the armrest of his chair.<p>

"Maybe you don't care, but if I'm going back into the labyrinth I'm going to be prepared this time," called Sarah from where she was rummaging through their cupboards for sealed packages of food. Her coat pockets already contained several appropriated muesli bars and a small carton of juice she'd dug out of the back of the fridge once John had moved any and all body parts out of her way.

"You won't be going 'back'," said Sherlock. "Nothing is going to happen."

"And I'm not doing a thing until you've put on some shoes and a jacket," she continued, ignoring him. "Last time it was summer back home, and I have no idea how the seasons work there, regardless."

Sarah, having apparently collected every scrap of suitable food, left the kitchen, stopping dead at the sight of John standing at the ready by the mantelpiece.

"This is a terrible idea," she said decidedly, turning to Sherlock, who simply walked past her. "You're risking his life here, I hope you realise that."

The detective spun around suddenly and strode right into her personal space, forcing her a step backwards. "And what about the lives of all those children, Miss Williams?" he said in a low undertone. "Don't you feel responsible for them?"

Sarah paled, head tilted back to face the man as he towered over her. "They're not… I'm not…"

"It's all in the Yard's files," Sherlock said harshly. "All those missing children who were never found, who disappeared from their beds, no sign of a break-in."

"How many?" Sarah asked quietly, sounding as though an answer was the last thing she wanted.

"In London alone? At least three in the last twenty years. Five, including the probable misrules."

Sarah was beginning to look ill, but Sherlock wasn't finished.

"Their parents will never see them again, so I think that perhaps you should stop playing the reluctant heroine and start doing your part to make sure this doesn't happen again."

Biting her lip, Sarah nodded, and if John wasn't horrified by the mere thought of a crying woman, he'd almost consider her to be close to tears for the second time that day. At Sarah's nod, however, Sherlock dropped the fierce glare, turned away and walked back through the kitchen.

"Besides, nothing is going to happen," he repeated unconcernedly as he disappeared into his bedroom.

John waited a moment before placing a hand on Sarah's forearm, jolting her out of her mildly dazed state. "Really, it's all right."

Sarah blinked a few times, slowly coming back to herself with a small headshake. "No, it's not. John, if this works, you'll have to be careful," she said. "Watch what you say, don't make any deals and don't accept food or water or anything, okay?" She handed him two muesli bars and a container of fruit salad John hadn't even known they had.

Ordinarily, the sensible doctor would have brushed off the advice, but something in Sarah's tone and the serious, determined set to her eyes made him pocket the food and give a reassuring nod to show he understood.

Sarah smiled sadly. "You know, when I read the email, I didn't think for a moment I'd be getting caught up in something like this again. I guess adventures are like that, though. Unexpected."

John said nothing, unsure of whether or not she wanted a response.

Sherlock rejoined them, now clad in his trademark coat and scarf, feet shod. "Finally ready, then? Or do I need gloves, too?"

"Just one question," said Sarah with a somewhat strained air of casualness, probably still smarting from the very recent dressing-down he'd given her. "Why the both of us?"

"You said it would work."

"I said I thought it would work. I've never heard of anyone wishing an adult away, so if we're lucky this won't work at all, but that's not the point. Why do you want both of us to say it?" She gave a small, artificially sly smile, her dour mood too potent for convincing light-heartedness. "If you don't believe, that is."

"Precaution," Sherlock said after a pause in which his eyes rested briefly on John.

Sarah gazed silently at him for a moment, as though inspecting him for ulterior motives. "All right. Do you remember the words?" She rolled her eyes at Sherlock's scornful expression. "After three, then."

The three unconsciously shuffled into a triangle formation.

"One."

Sarah swallowed.

"Two."

Sherlock and John's eyes met.

"Three."

John blinked.

"I wish the goblins would come and take you away right now," chorused Sarah and Sherlock in respectively reluctant and dispassionate tones.

Five seconds later, John said, "Uh… Well, I guess it's plan B, then."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started for his armchair, which held Sarah's copy of _The Labyrinth_, bookmarked in half a dozen places.

Sarah, however, remained where she was, straining her ears for scuffling, a giggle, _anything_. She'd hear it sooner or later, she knew, because one did not simply speak those words and get away with it. The Goblin King didn't allow it.

It took a moment. John was halfway to the kitchen (presumably to brew more tea) and Sherlock was reaching for the book when there was the patter of light feet by the couch. As if someone had hit pause on the remote, everyone froze, not even daring to breathe, listening, just as Sarah had been, for another sound. For seconds, there was nothing but the hum of passing traffic and the clatter of dishes from the downstairs apartment of the landlady, whom Sarah had met very briefly between getting to Baker Street and leaving it. In those seconds, it almost seemed like they might have imagined the noise.

Then the lights went out and everything went to hell.

* * *

><p>"Has to be some sort of drug – a hallucinogenic," Sherlock said, the panicked pace of his speech belying his rationalisations. "You said you don't eat anything made by a stranger. Ever since you wished your brother away, correct?" He didn't wait for confirmation. "But you slipped up. Today. Somebody must have given you something, at Bart's or –"<p>

"It's not drugs, Sherlock!" Sarah yelled, stepping backwards as something skittered past her feet. "It's goblins! How many times – I _told_ you –"

She was interrupted by John's urgent call.

"Sherlock…"

"John," breathed Sherlock, eyes going impossibly wider.

They abandoned their bickering, whirling to face John. There, clinging to his pant-leg, was a mean-faced, little goblin. It grinned wickedly at Sarah as several of its fellows joined it, attaching themselves to the doctor's shins.

"No!" Sarah rushed to him and clasped his hand. "John, we'll get you back, I promise!"

"But –"

"I am so sorry," said Sarah, taking a second to close her eyes tightly, blocking out the terrifying situation in which she'd once again found herself, if only for an instant, before meeting John's bewildered and just slightly fearful gaze. "We'll get you back."

The sound of a breaking lamp – shoved off the desk by one of the goblins – drew both Sarah and Sherlock's attention, and, just like that, Sarah's fingers were holding nothing but air. When she looked back, John was gone.

"John!" Sherlock's yell was anguished. He sounded more human than Sarah had thought him capable.

It was then – in the aftermath of John's disappearance, with goblins scuttling around the room just at the edge of Sarah's vision – that the woman began to properly panic.

"Crap, crap, crap, crap…" Sarah knew exactly what came next and, despite all her prior misgivings, she had no doubt that the Goblin King intended to follow through. She opened her mouth again, planning to say something to Sherlock – reassurance, maybe, or more likely a warning – but faltered at the realisation that no amount of words could help any of them now, least of all John. As someone for whom words were both a profession and an obsession, Sarah found this remarkably frustrating, which momentarily distracted her from her panic.

This distraction did not last long, however, as, with a deep roll of sudden-onset thunder, the pair was caught up in the paper blizzard caused by a bizarre gust of wind which certainly didn't come through the permanently closed windows. Sarah squeezed her eyes shut, protecting her head and face as best she could while the sound of large wings beating furiously grew steadily louder – uncomfortably familiar, considering the sound of these particular wings was unique to this and one other instance in her life.

Finally, eyes closed, heart racing, completely surrounded by utter chaos, Sarah did what any person does when faced with a situation for which conventional words are simply not enough. She cursed. "Fuck."

As if that had been a signal of some sort, albeit one with an extremely delayed effect, the scurrying, giggles and general pandemonium died down. Sarah tentatively opened her eyes to a swirl of glitter and another sight which, while distinctly less child-friendly, held its own in the breathtaking department.

In front of the window, outlined by the murky glow of streetlights, stood an imposing figure. With his angular features, self-assured posture and sweeping cloak that seemed slightly too black and not entirely tangible, he gave off an air of authority, arrogance and, above all else, danger.

"Jareth."

The figure stepped forward, calmly observing the two with an unmistakable quirk to the corners of his mouth. "Hello, Sarah."

Sarah swept her tongue over her lips. He was just as she remembered, although she suspected he had been working on his intimidating pose. All her instincts, not to mention the common sense she'd picked up with regards to the fae, were telling her in no uncertain terms to get the hell out of there. Nevertheless, she forced herself to keep a cool tone. "I don't suppose this means we get twice the usual time?"

"Half, actually."

"What? That's not –" Sarah cut herself off as Jareth's smirk widened. "Fine," she said icily. "Fine. Six and a half hours, then. Let's get this over with."

"Ah, ah, ah." Jareth wagged his finger in taunting admonishment. "I haven't decided to let you run the labyrinth yet."

Sarah's eyebrows drew together in confusion, while Sherlock, who, she could see out of the corner of her eye, was standing a few feet to her left, twitched noticeably. "We're not going to take whatever 'gift' you have to offer."

"You misunderstand, Sarah. The running of the labyrinth was part of the story, as was its defeat." His smug expression flickered but did not fade. "Now that that portion of the story is complete, I am no longer obligated to offer the chance to reclaim a wished-away child or any consolation prizes. I don't even have to make an appearance."

"Then why did you?" Sarah spat, though she looked pale; Jareth had just confirmed her fears.

"Curiosity," replied Jareth casually, unmoved by her ire. "Unusual circumstances, these. A grown man wished away by two people at once. Your idea, was it?"

Sarah shook her head, eyes flicking towards Sherlock, who had yet to say anything.

"And who's this? New beau? Really, Sarah, I thought wishing people away would have stayed off your list of suitable date activities. Although I also thought you preferred blonds," he said, glancing disdainfully at Sherlock's dark curls.

"We're not – and I don't _prefer_ –" Sarah spluttered. "Look, what will it take for you to let us run the labyrinth?"

"Well, let's see. I have in my possession someone you apparently care about greatly. Whatever you offer will have to make me willing to risk losing him. So, as the human expression goes… start your bidding."

"Me," said Sherlock before Sarah could stop him. His face was wan but determined. "If neither of us reaches John in time, you can have me." The strain in his voice betrayed his struggle to remain calm and in control.

Sarah watched, halfway between fear and hope, as Jareth considered it, while very fervently wishing she could punch Sherlock.

"As noble as I'm sure that was intended to be, I'm rather at a loss as to what to do with one man wandering about my castle, let alone two. Then again," the Goblin King added in an innocently thoughtful tone Sarah didn't buy for a second, his eyes sliding in her direction, "I could perhaps make an exception for the sake of revisiting the classics. How is Toby these days, Sarah? A little old to be turned into a goblin, I expect, but I could find something…"

Sarah inhaled deeply. "All right. Me. Same deal as Sherlock – if we don't get to the castle by the end of the six and a half hours, you can have me."

Jareth laughed delightedly. "A little egotistical, don't you think, precious? You're worth no more than any other human. Nevertheless, I think we can reach a compromise. I'll agree to your terms, but not for one or the other – for both of you."

After a moment of hesitation and a tense nod from Sherlock, Sarah stepped forward, hand held out. "Deal."

Jareth grinned, returning the handshake. When he let go, Sarah found herself swamped in darkness atop the same hill that had been the start of her adventure twenty-four years previous, very suddenly devoid of Jareth. In fact, the hill was devoid of anything except some scraggly trees, a thirteen-hour clock with both hands halfway through their journeys and Sherlock, who was standing with his eyes closed and fingers steepled, looking entirely out of place in his designer coat and tailored suit.

"So, still think I made it up?"

* * *

><p><strong>God, it's nothing but dialogue. And I suck at dialogue. Also, uh… spot the original <strong>_**Sherlock Holmes**_** quote?**

**Some of my notes from the first, handwritten draft of this chapter:**

"_**Why am I doing this? How can I possibly keep it from turning into crack? I think I'm sending Sherlock Holmes into the labyrinth, for God's sake!"**_

**And, as an irritating and unwanted bonus, my conversation with my little brother discussing the likelihood of aluminium flakes being the true explanation behind the glitter:**

"_**Why would it be aluminium flakes?"**_

"_**What, you think the Goblin King just throws a handful of glitter in the air whenever he appears anywhere?"**_

"_**Who's to say he doesn't?"**_

"_**I think he has a little more dignity than that."**_

"_**In an ideal world, he would, but he doesn't."**_

"_**Look, this aluminium thing is now my headcanon, okay?"**_

"_**Yeah, well, my headcanon is that David Bowie is a very flamboyant man!"**_

**As always, if you intend to review, the good with the bad, please, unless you can find no good, in which case join the club. (I bake cookies for our fortnightly meetings. They taste of tears and bitter regret, although sometimes I like to mix it up and put chopped up Mars Bars in.) The pointing out of stupid and not-so-stupid mistakes is very welcome.**

**-TeamVampire**


	3. Chapter 3

**Just, uh, FYI, I very much appreciate any and all response to this story, as it's in a relatively obscure, disused part of FF dot net. If this site were my high school, this story would be at the top of that set of stairs in the alleyway between the Industry and Art blocks that leads to a door which I don't think has ever been unlocked. Analogy aside, I thought I should point this out since I don't otherwise get a chance to respond to my anonymous reviewers. Seriously, every review has me blushing like crazy, although to be honest just seeing people alert this is pretty gratifying. Cheers, guys.**

**Speaking of thanks, Snatching At Dreams did me the incredible service of beta-ing this chapter. I've never had a beta before, but she is lovely to work with and gives wonderful feedback.**

**Also, it's been four years since I joined the site! Happy anniversary, FF dot net. I got you this chapter. Hope you like it. WINK.**

* * *

><p><span>The Wished-Aways<span>

Chapter 3

Sarah stood with her arms folded, her impatience made obvious by the restless fingers dancing over her sleeve. Thanks to the apparent dissonance between the passages of time in the two realms – or perhaps it was simply the difference in time zones between America and England – they had arrived outside the labyrinth not, as she had hoped, during the day like the last time she had wished someone away at night, but sometime during either late evening or very early morning. She'd always felt mildly claustrophobic at night, which she attributed to her brief stint in the oubliette during her last visit, and on top of that she now had an unresponsive consulting detective to deal with.

"We really don't have time for this, Mr Holmes." They didn't; even as she watched, the hanging clock's minute hand moved another increment, and was it her imagination or was the sky already noticeably darker?

She turned back to Sherlock, brushing aside the strands of hair blown into her mouth by the cool, strangely dry wind. "John doesn't have time for this."

She received no answer.

"Look, I know you don't believe in any of this, but for John's sake could you just go along with it? I promise you, I haven't lied about anything I've told you."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose, eyes flicking open to take in the surrounding landscape. "I've come to the conclusion that I'll have to act on the assumption that this is all real and not the product of a hallucination or something similar."

Sarah made a derisive noise. "Really? You couldn't have decided that _before_ you insisted on wishing John away?"

"There was very little data previously. Even now, I lack verifiable data from which to –"

"Yeah, I got it. You still don't believe what's right in front of you."

"It's not a matter of what's in front of me; it's what's behind all of –"

"Sherlock!"

"– this. Nonetheless, the seriousness of the situation, imagined or not, merits my full attention," said Sherlock, watching the small portion of the labyrinth that was even slightly visible in the darkness in a speculative sort of manner.

"Well, this 'situation' is your fault!" Sarah said accusingly. She pointed at him and tried to resist poking him in the chest. "Rule number one of dealing with the fae: don't make any deals. And what do you do? Offer _yourself_ as a bargaining chip!"

Sherlock finally met her gaze, lowering the slim fingers which had until now remained firmly steepled in front of his lips. "It may have escaped your notice, but there was no way we would have been allowed into this labyrinth without offering this exact deal."

That certainly threw Sarah. "What do you mean?"

"By all accounts, the fae are manipulative, clever and very used to getting what they want. No matter what you may have offered initially, eventually you'd have been left with no alternative."

Sarah opened her mouth to argue but, much to her irritation, found she had no reply. Instead, she said, "We can't discuss this now. He only gave us half the normal time. We have to get moving." Indeed, the clock showed that they had already used over five minutes of their allotted six and a half hours.

With a distracted nod, Sherlock marched briskly past her and headed for the labyrinth, already halfway down the hill by the time Sarah started to follow.

"Hey, slow down a little! These boots have heels." And no grip to speak of, as she was quickly finding out.

After completing the treacherous descent with minimal sliding and no injuries (save for her dignity, which was severely bruised by a minor loss of balance partway down the slope), Sarah caught up to Sherlock where he was standing by the pond, piercing stare fixed on the dozens of ethereal, white creatures flitting amongst the bushes lining the outermost wall.

"Watch out for the fairies. They bite," said Sarah. She paused for a moment, taking in the fairies as they glittered in the moonlight. "There're more than I remember. Usually Hoggle keeps them in check…" She bit her lip and tried to ignore the nagging worry that had suddenly taken up residence in her stomach. "He should be here."

"Perhaps he doesn't work nights," said Sherlock impassively.

A fairy floated too close for comfort and Sarah stepped back to avoid it. "You're right. Of course he doesn't." She should have thought of that. Maybe this was the jetlag kicking in. Swallowing, Sarah rubbed her eyes and paid no mind to the way her fingers came away slightly wet. "All right, let's keep going."

"How?" They were faced with nothing but a stretch of vine-choked wall, disappearing into the foggy, steel grey distance in both directions.

Sarah exhaled impatiently, and the wind picked up; it was almost as if the labyrinth were sighing in response. "Fair point. Could do with some light, to start with." Sarah pulled her cell phone from her jeans' pocket, pressing a couple of the keys. When that engendered no response from the phone, she tried the power button.

"Nothing," she concluded sourly. "How about yours?"

Sherlock reached for his own phone and, after a couple of seconds, shook his head, looking distinctly displeased.

Sarah sighed. "Guess we're working in the dark, then." She inspected the wall, squinting slightly. "Last time, my friend Hoggle showed me the door. It only appeared when he pointed it out, though."

"Did he do or say anything in particular?"

"No… I don't think so. He was telling me to ask the right question. So I asked how to get into the labyrinth and the door just appeared, right where I'd walked past a solid wall seconds before."

Sherlock gave her a pointed look.

"Oh! You think it's like the Room of Requirement?"

The detective's eyebrows drew together. "What?"

Sarah ignored him, walking alongside the wall with her eyes closed. "How do we get into the labyrinth?"

Hesitantly opening her eyes one at a time, she was gratified by the sudden presence of a large set of double-doors which was slowly opening itself. Sherlock, who had not removed his eyes from the spot which had once been nothing more than wall, was looking almost stunned, if that word could ever be applied to the know-it-all detective.

Stepping up to the doorway, Sarah smiled knowingly at him. "Room of Requirement," she said smugly.

Seeming to snap out of his momentary bout of not-quite-awe, Sherlock huffed before joining her in passing through the foreboding archway and entering the labyrinth.

The two stared down the, by all appearances (and, indeed, in actuality), infinite corridor laid out before them.

"Now what?" asked Sherlock in a tone which conveyed exactly how entirely underwhelmed he was.

"Now we look for an invisible doorway." Sarah gave Sherlock a sidelong glance. "I hope you're in good shape."

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, in the castle beyond the goblin city, John was in something of a situation and not quite certain how he'd gotten into it. One moment, he was at the flat, being grabbed at by dozens of tiny hands. The next, he was in a filthy, stone room, still being grabbed at by dozens of tiny hands – tiny hands which, he was beginning to accept, were attached to goblins.<p>

"You get the hell away fr– Ouch! Hey… no, let go!" A solid kick sent one of the little cretins flying, but two more took its place before John had even regained his balance. Beneath his feet, the leather seat of the oversized chair creaked as he attempted to back even further away from the grabby little monsters. He made it half a step before his legs hit the backrest.

Fortunately, at that moment what was hopefully some form of help arrived through the double-doors across the room, and John was frankly desperate for assistance, no matter how ridiculous the source's hair.

"Finally. Hi. Look, d'you think you could call them off?"

The smirking man came to a halt at the edge of the peculiar pillow pit in which John had originally appeared. "If it will get you off of my throne." Not a man, then – this was the Goblin King.

He motioned lazily to the clamouring mass of goblins, which quickly dispersed as the creatures scurried from the presence of their king, allowing John to cautiously climb down.

"My apologies. They can be somewhat… overzealous."

"Yeah, thanks. This has been great and insane and everything, but I've got to get going now, so…" John, trying to appear unconcerned despite every one of his senses being on high-alert, strode past the Goblin King to the doors which he guessed would eventually lead him outside of… wherever he was.

"And exactly how do you intend to go about that?"

Ignoring the blatantly amused question, John pushed open the doors and stepped through, only to find himself entering the room he had just left. A 360-degree turn confirmed that, whatever function these doors served, they weren't going to be his escape.

"Ffff–" John inhaled deeply. "Right."

* * *

><p>"So," said Sarah conversationally as they jogged steadily down the endless corridor, each trailing their fingertips along a wall, "this all seems pretty real, in a surreal kind of way. I was telling the truth about the labyrinth, obviously."<p>

"I'll concede that. You did lie at one point, though."

"Oh?" Sarah queried dispassionately, not overly concerned with whatever miniscule evasion the finicky detective had apparently picked up on. "About what?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, although the usual imperiousness of the expression was somewhat dimmed by the pair's brisk and not at all smooth gait. "You said you weren't 'delusional with love'. Not necessarily a lie, I suppose, but for all I know it may have been."

Sarah nearly tripped over a fallen branch. "What?"

"Your Goblin King," Sherlock elaborated, avoiding the branch with irritating ease. "Clearly, you were enamoured with him the last time, if you aren't still, which is unlikely."

It was a source of great satisfaction for Sarah, how readily she responded with a mocking remark. "Yeah, right. He steals my baby brother and I fall in love with him. Mmhmm."

"'The course of true love never did run smooth.'"

"Now you're just being a dick," said Sarah matter-of-factly.

Whether on purpose or by accident – the former, Sarah was willing to bet – Sherlock replied in an annoyingly similar tone. "Stockholm Syndrome is a well-documented phenomenon."

Sarah let out a huff which had little to do with the exercise they were undertaking. "Yeah, except I wasn't the one who got kidnapped."

"You said he trapped you in his labyrinth."

"I _chose_ to run it."

"But once here, you were more or less stranded for thirteen hours."

"Ten," Sarah interjected. "He stole three."

"Ten, then," amended Sherlock. "I assume you had some contact with him during that time."

"You mean when he showed up to taunt me or try to kill me?"

Sherlock looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "He never showed you any kindness?"

Sarah's retort died on her lips. Admittedly, there had been that dance… "Okay, maybe I did have a crush back then, but I was fifteen! That was years ago, and besides, I have a boyfriend!"

"Whom you neglected to use as your initial argument. Perhaps Shane ought to begin packing his things."

"Sean," Sarah corrected, irritation now bordering on anger. "And you don't know what you're talking about."

"I know he's interested in you," said Sherlock. Sarah dearly hoped she was imagining the smug, almost sing-song quality to his statement.

After a deep, calming breath, Sarah managed to very healthily repress her anger. "What makes you think that?" she asked in her best long-suffering tone – perfected in her youth and still extremely handy at times. Case in point.

"Apart from the alarmingly possessive behaviour he displayed towards you earlier, why else would he wait until you were part of the bargain?"

"Oh, I don't know, out of spite, maybe?" Sarah attempted a shrug – not an easy manoeuvre when jogging with one arm held out to the side. "I beat his labyrinth; he hates me. Anyway, he made sure you were included, too."

"Yes," said Sherlock in the sort of voice with which you'd speak to an exceptionally trying toddler, "but that actually was out of spite – for instigating the synchronised wish, at a guess. He can't stand being outsmarted."

"I don't feel very smart at the moment," muttered Sarah as she clambered over a pile of rubble, although where it had come from was a mystery, since the surrounding walls were intact. Louder, she said, "And there you go. I outsmarted him all those years ago and now he's getting back at me. Obvious."

Sound in logic though they may have been, her words went unregistered by Sherlock. "What do you think he meant by 'the story'?"

"Huh?" Exactly where the change in topic had come from, Sarah certainly had no idea. She gave another shrug. "I don't know. The fae love being cryptic."

"Well –"

Sarah would never know what Sherlock's theory regarding Jareth's choice in words was, for at that moment –

"Here it is!" The wall had suddenly dropped away under her fingertips, revealing the hidden exit shown to her by the talking worm the last time she was there. And speaking of whom…

Happy for a reason to stop discussing Jareth, Sarah turned away from the opening and crossed to the opposite wall, kneeling in front of a likely looking crevice. "Uh… Hello?" She did her best to ignore Sherlock's presence, feeling her cheeks begin to warm. "Mr… um, Worm?"

Having received no reply, Sarah was about to give up when a squeaky voice sounded. "Call me Wig! Mr Worm is my father." From the crevice emerged a dull cyan worm whose wriggle Sarah could only describe as sprightly.

"Oh," said Sarah, and then, because the worm didn't seem inclined to continue, she added, "It's nice to meet you, Wig. I'm Sarah and this is Sherlock. Do you think you could ask your father to come out? I met him the first time I was here."

Wig gave her a bright smile, which she hurriedly returned, and quickly made his way back inside the wall. When he returned moments later, he was accompanied by a larger, teal worm.

"Big Worm, at your service, miss."

Sarah blinked, confused. This was not the worm from her memory. "Oh, I'm sorry. I thought you were…" She smiled uncertainly. "Um, do you know where I can find the worm I met last time? He was sort of a royal blue? With a scarf. Just… could you tell him it's Sarah?"

Now Big looked stunned. "Sarah? The Sarah that beat the labyrinth?"

"Oh, she's _that_ Sarah," exclaimed Wig. "I thought she was fae! Don't she look fae?"

Sarah gaped, momentarily speechless. "I do not look like the fae!" she retorted hotly.

"You do a bit." The older worm nodded at Sherlock, who furrowed his brow. "He does a bit, too."

With a huff and an eye-roll, Sarah chose to ignore these decidedly unhelpful, little observations. "Right, thanks. Look, where is the worm I met?"

"You must mean Great-great-great-great-grandfather Dig," said Big.

"Great-great… You mean… He's not – not dead, is he?"

"'Fraid so, miss. Long time ago, now."

Sarah bit her lip, looking away from the annelids. If one didn't count Hoggle (and she certainly hadn't at the time), the worm was her first friend in the labyrinth. Without his advice, she would have ended up taking the other path, which, if his reaction at the time was any indication, probably led to the Cleaners' depot. Though she hadn't realised it until now, she'd been looking forward to seeing him again and properly thanking him for his part in Toby's rescue. No help for it now, she supposed.

Returning her attention to the worms, she said, "I see. Thank you for…" The upsetting news? "Uh, yeah, thanks. We should really be going now, though."

Big nodded. "We understand. Good luck."

"Good luck, Sarah!" cried Wig as Sarah stood and made for the gap in the wall, Sherlock following promptly.

The worms watched as the pair of humans passed through the opening and rounded the corner, leaving their sight.

"She's gone the long way again," said Big.

"D'you think we should have said something?"

Big shook the upper quarter of his body. "She'll find her way. The story can't be finished without her after all." He turned to his son with a cheery smile. "Now how about a cuppa tea, hm?"

* * *

><p>They were no more than twenty paces into the neat, stone maze portion of the labyrinth when the teacher and the detective came upon their first intersection.<p>

"Right, so there's the castle." Sarah pointed to the large, looming structure in the distance, visible against the navy sky due to the flicker of firelight in its windows. "I guess we just keep heading as directly for it as we can. That's what I did last time."

Sherlock looked predictably unimpressed. "At least we have a cunning plan to follow."

"Hey, it worked for me last time, so unless you have a better idea, shut up and try not to get separated," said Sarah waspishly. She looked around them at the uniform stone walls and numerous paths which branched off from their own, quickly twisting away into the night. "I doubt we'd ever find each other again in this place."

Apparently, her companion did not have a better idea, for when he rolled his eyes and continued on past her, it was down a path in the direction of the castle, as Sarah was very pleased to note. Grinning slightly despite their situation, she hurried after him into the maze's depths.

They'd barely been walking for five minutes when Sherlock unexpectedly spoke.

"I didn't anticipate this."

Sarah stared. "I'd be surprised if you had," she said drily. "Well, maybe not so much, considering I told you this could happen…"

Sherlock ignored her. "Wishing John away, it was just supposed to prove you were lying or delusional."

"Thanks for that," said Sarah, hoping Sherlock was taking note of the sarcasm in her voice. "I still don't get why you were so determined to do it, though."

Sherlock's lips tightened. "There was a slight chance that the serial kidnapper would attempt to take John for the sake of maintaining his ritual and reveal himself in the process, or that you would turn out to be the kidnapper –"

"Oh, it keeps getting better," Sarah said under her breath as they took a left-turn at a T junction.

"– though to kidnap Miss Taylor's baby and return to America in time to reply to my email – and your IP confirmed the reply _was_ sent from New York – you would have been on an extremely tight schedule, not to mention you bear very few of the psychological indicators." He said all of this very quickly and plainly, and it took Sarah a moment to catch up.

"Hey, hold on. Which ones do I bear, then?" she asked, not sure whether to feel insulted.

The detective literally handwaved her question away. "It's not important. At worst, nothing would happen, you would be proved wrong and we would have to repeat the experiment with an infant."

Sarah gaped, horrified. "Sherlock! Tell me you're joking."

"The likelihood of the kidnapper breaking his pattern of victims was very slight," said Sherlock by way of explanation. "Almost nothing. Naturally, we'd have to replicate the conditions of the other abductions in order to be certain that route was not of any use."

"I don't believe you," muttered Sarah. A sociopath – she was talking to a complete and utter sociopath.

"In any case, this turn of events… was unexpected." Or perhaps not a complete sociopath. The detective's tone had held a hint of what Sarah suspected was remorse.

"And you regret it," prompted Sarah.

Sherlock shot her a sharp look. "Obviously."

Sarah allowed herself a small smile. "Well, for what it's worth, I regret telling you how to wish someone away. Mind you, _I_ didn't anticipate you actually making use of it like this."

"I find people rarely anticipate my actions."

Sarah watched as her companion gracefully wended his way through a particularly narrow doorway before following after him. "You don't say."

* * *

><p>It took some time for John to finally snap. He'd kept expecting the Goblin King to bring it up, maybe gloat over his misdeeds with an evil cackle, but apparently that wasn't the king's style. Too clichéd, he supposed. So it fell to John to stand up and ask. "Where is Andrew?"<p>

Jareth looked up from where he was sat on the window sill, watching the land below. "Pardon?"

"The baby you took," said John through gritted teeth. "From a woman named Lucy Taylor."

"Oh, of course. Somebody ought to think of the children, hm?" When John showed no reaction, Jareth sighed. "I wouldn't know," he said nonchalantly. "In the city somewhere, I expect. With the rest of the goblins."

John stared. After a moment, so did Jareth.

"Surely Sarah told you what happens to wished-aways?"

John's lack of response was a sufficient answer, apparently.

Jareth's eyes lit up. "She didn't, did she? My, my, my. That girl has been keeping secrets. Imagine, allowing you to volunteer to be taken without even the courtesy of telling you that you may end up a goblin. Rather far from 'informed consent', wouldn't you say?" The Goblin King grinned, obviously enjoying himself. "I should add, though, that you needn't worry. Adults make for terrible goblins – boring, well-behaved… and no imagination to speak of."

Though it was only infinitesimally, John relaxed.

"More likely, you'll end up living in the Bog or the Junkyard, with all the other misfits."

* * *

><p>It was less than half an hour by Sherlock's approximation since they had left the endless corridor, but to Sarah it felt like much longer. English Lit teacher, perhaps, but she had the patience of a three-year-old. This all but aimless wandering through dark passages which were impossible to differentiate and enjoyed shifting amongst themselves to boot was, quite frankly, driving her insane. The fact that Sherlock seemed more or less serene, if in a telling hurry, did not help.<p>

Most fortunately, as occurrences in Sarah's life often were (barring, of course, her introduction to Sherlock Holmes), the monotony was interrupted by the sudden appearance of an old friend.

"Hoggle!"

Their path through the stone maze had brought them to a small garden, populated by some two dozen bushes of varying sizes and blooms, as well as a single gruff dwarf.

"Sarah?"

"It's so good to see you again, Hoggle!" exclaimed Sarah as she embraced him tightly, kneeling to do so. "I'm sorry we haven't talked in ages; I've been so busy with work and Sean…"

Hoggle was aghast when she released him. "Sarah, what're you doin' here?"

"Um… It's sort of a long story, but we're here to rescue a friend of Sherlock's." She gestured to the man where he stood examining the leaves of the nearest plant with interest, although she suspected he was giving the dwarf a thorough inspection at the same time. "Hoggle, why didn't you tell me no one else could run the labyrinth anymore?"

Hoggle's weathered face grew grim. "I didn't want you feelin' guilty 'bout somethin' that weren't your fault. Besides, there's nothin' to be done," he said decidedly.

"We'll see about that," said Sarah quietly with a determined set to her jaw. She made as if to stand. "Come on, we'd better get moving. He cut our time in half already."

"Sarah… I ain't allowed to help you."

The woman paused, confused. "What? But you did last time." She tried not to sound hurt or, worse, accusing.

"That was to… to give you the…" Hoggle looked embarrassed.

"The peach," finished Sarah. She sighed. "I understand, Hoggle, and I'd like to stay and talk, but we've really got to go now."

At her friend's downhearted nod, Sarah stood and started for the doorway across the garden, Sherlock following her lead. They didn't make it more than a few steps before Hoggle called her back.

"Sarah, wait! It's just…" The dwarf shifted uncomfortably, looking down at his hands. "I have this… this vision problem, see. Everythin' – you know, in the distance – looks a little off." He brought his chin up and his eyes, meeting Sarah's, seemed to gain new resolve. Inexplicably, he began to overemphasise his speech. "I always heads just to the _left_ of wherever I'm tryin' to _go_… you know, to make up for places lookin' a bit more to the _right_ than they _really are_."

Sarah blinked. Why was Hoggle behaving so strangely? "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry to hear that, Hoggle," she said truthfully. A small, impatient sound from Sherlock reminded her of their quickly dwindling allotment of time. Tossing up between staying a little longer, asking Hoggle exactly what it was that had him acting like this, and leaving immediately with the hope that an extra minute or two might somehow aid them in what was an admittedly formidable race against the clock to save John and themselves… well, Sarah simply couldn't risk it. "Listen, I'll talk to you when I make it home, all right?"

For a moment, Hoggle looked as though he wanted to protest, however it quickly passed. With a resigned grimace, the dwarf raised a hand in farewell. "Good luck, Sarah."

Perturbed by her friend's gloomy goodbye, Sarah forced a confident smile. "'Bye, Hoggle. I'll be home before you know it, I promise."

Just as the worms had before him, Hoggle gazed after the humans until they were out of sight. Unlike the worms, though, he felt no cheer at the thought of the outcome of this journey. And after the disastrous and wholly unexpected end to Sarah's last visit to the labyrinth, there could only be one outcome. Jareth would see to that.

* * *

><p><strong>D&amp;Ms with Sherlock – who knew, right? If it makes you feel any better (it certainly does me), Sherlock's interest in Sarah's love life is purely for the sake of collecting information which may be used as leverage to ensure he and John return to Baker Street safely. Probably.<strong>

**Hey, notice how pretty much all the narration is made up of sentences of which the subjects are characters? That's because I am an impatient writer who does not care for background scenery and seeks only to advance the plot. God forbid I should spend more than fifty words per chapter on reflective writing. Anyway, forgive the pity party (I blame all that teen angst). If you care to review, I would be much obliged. If you care to critique, I will give you my firstborn. **

**-TeamVampire**


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